IV.
… IT is a breezeless and cloudless noon. Under the dazzling
downpour of light the hills seem to smoke blue: something like a
thin yellow fog haloes the leagues of ripening cane,—a vast
reflection. There is no stir in all the green mysterious front
of the vine-veiled woods. The palms of the roads keep their heads
quite still, as if listening. The canes do not utter a single
susurration. Rarely is there such absolute stillness among them:
on the calmest days there are usually rustlings audible,
thin cracklings, faint creepings: sounds that betray the passing of
some little animal or reptile—a rat or a wa manicou, or a zanoli
or couresse,—more often, however, no harmless lizard or snake,
but the deadly
fer-de-lance. To-day, all these seem to sleep;
and there are no workers among the cane to clear away the weeds,
—to uproot the pié-treffe, pié-poule, pié-balai, zhèbe-en-mè: it
is the hour of rest.
A woman is coming along the road,—young, very swarthy, very
tall, and barefooted, and black-robed: she wears a high white
turban with dark stripes, and a white foulard is thrown about her
fine shoulders; she bears no burden, and walks very swiftly and
noiselessly. … Soundless as shadow the motion of all these
naked-footed people is. On any quiet mountain-way, full of
curves, where you fancy yourself alone, you may often be startled
by something you feel, rather than hear, behind you,—surd
steps, the springy movement of a long lithe body, dumb
oscillations of raiment;—and ere you can turn to look, the
haunter swiftly passes with creole greeting of "bon-jou'" or
"bonsouè, Missié." This sudden "becoming aware" in broad daylight
of a living presence unseen is even more disquieting than that
sensation which, in absolute darkness, makes one halt all
breathlessly before great solid objects, whose proximity has been
revealed by some mute blind emanation of force alone. But it is
very seldom, indeed, that the negro or half-breed is thus
surprised: he seems to divine an advent by some specialized
sense,—like an animal,—and to become conscious of a look
directed upon him from any distance or from behind any covert;—
to pass within the range of his keen vision unnoticed is almost
impossible. … And the approach of this woman has been already
observed by the habitants of the ajoupas;—dark faces peer out
from windows and door-ways;—one half-nude laborer even strolls
out to the road-side under the sun to
watch her coming. He looks a
moment, turns to the hut and calls:—
—"Ou-ou! Fafa!"
—"Étí! Gabou!"
—"Vini ti bouin!—mi bel negresse!"
Out rushes Fafa, with his huge straw hat in his hand: "Oti,
Gabou?"
—"Mi!"
—"'Ah! quimbé moin!" cries black Fafa, enthusiastically;
"fouinq! li bel!—Jésis-Maïa! li doux!" … Neither ever saw that
woman before; and both feel as if they could watch her forever.
There is something superb in the port of a tall young mountain-griffone,
or negress, who is comely and knows that she is comely:
it is a black poem of artless dignity, primitive grace, savage
exultation of movement. … "Ou marché tête enlai conm couresse
qui ka passélariviè" (You walk with your head in the air, like
the couresse-serpent swimming a river) is a creole comparison
which pictures perfectly the poise of her neck and chin. And in
her walk there is also a serpentine elegance, a sinuous charm:
the shoulders do not swing; the cambered torso seems immobile;—
but alternately from waist to heel, and from heel to waist, with
each long full stride, an indescribable undulation seems to pass;
while the folds of her loose robe oscillate to right and left
behind her, in perfect libration, with the free swaying of the
hips. With us, only a finely trained dancer could attempt such a
walk;—with the Martinique woman of color it is natural as the
tint of her skin; and this allurement of motion unrestrained is
most marked in those who have never worn shoes, and are clad
lightly as the women of antiquity,—in two very thin and simple
garments;—chemise and robe—d'indienne. … But whence is she?—of
what canton? Not from Vauclin, nor from Lamentin, nor from
Marigot,—from Case-Pilote or from Case-Navire: Fafa knows all
the people
there. Never of Sainte-Anne, nor of Sainte-Luce, nor
of Sainte-Marie, nor of Diamant, nor of Gros-Morne, nor of
Carbet,—the birthplace of Gabou. Neither is she of the village
of the Abysms, which is in the Parish of the Preacher,—nor yet
of Ducos nor of François, which are in the Commune of the Holy
Ghost. …
